


The Vital Thing is to be Able to Reason Backwards

by doctornerdington



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fic Exchange, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 18:27:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctornerdington/pseuds/doctornerdington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for the Winterlock Exchange.   </p><p>Title (and several lines from Sherlock's diatribe) taken from A Study in Scarlet. </p><p>Thanks to the Carpenter for an excellent beta read.</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Vital Thing is to be Able to Reason Backwards

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bbcsjohnlock (Science_of_Induction)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Science_of_Induction/gifts).



> Written for the Winterlock Exchange. 
> 
> Title (and several lines from Sherlock's diatribe) taken from A Study in Scarlet. 
> 
> Thanks to the Carpenter for an excellent beta read.

The droning continued as John sagged back against the exposed brick wall, panting from what had turned out to be a futile chase through the more obscure alleyways of the East End. It was a hot, close London night, and his shirt clung to him, uncomfortably. As his heart slowed, the low drone – the _irritating_ low drone, he mentally corrected himself – transformed slowly into comprehensible words. They were no less annoying for the clarity, and John closed his eyes to ignore them as best he could. It was, he found, generally best practice for coping with the more challenging aspects of Sherlock’s friendship.  
  
"In solving a problem of this sort, John, the vital thing is to be able to reason backwards. It’s a useful skill, and very easy to acquire. I don’t understand why the Yard just can’t _do_ it,” Sherlock said, pausing mid-pace to jab John with an accusing finger. The failed chase had him tetchy, and verbose with it. John pointedly kept his eyes shut. “Their little, little brains are so preoccupied with everyday life that they think it’s more expedient to reason forwards. Result: their faculties of higher reason are neglected. Call themselves ‘detectives.’ Hah! I doubt they have the deductive capacity of an eight-year-old child, between them. A child would at least be creative.” His voice moved away; that would be disgusted pacing, then. “Let me see if I can make this clearer for you: most people, if you describe a train of events to them, will tell you what the result would be. They can put those events together in their minds, and argue from them that something will come to pass. There are few people, however, who, if you told them a result, would be able to evolve from their own inner consciousness what the steps were which led up to that result. This power is what I mean when I speak of reasoning backwards – and it should be the purview of all detectives. Even you could surely manage such a thing if you put your mind to it."  
  
Sherlock paused, apparently gathering the wherewithal to continue his diatribe on the Yard’s more egregious defects.  
  
“Yes, thank you very much for that, you great, bollocking wanker.” Snapping open his eyes, John rubbed at his face where a trickle of sweat raised an itch. Sherlock continued without acknowledging the interruption. The chase had been a long one, and the stakes high; both men were seething in frustration. The adrenalin surge made John lightheaded, reckless, and though his breathing slowed, his body still sang with tension – some residual from the chase, some months in the making. Since meeting Sherlock, he’d grown used to it living just beneath his skin, clamoring for release. He stood for a moment in the dingy alleyway, watching Sherlock’s pale face emphatically vibrating with the force of his argument. He was, quite simply, the loveliest, most infuriating thing John had ever seen. “Nope,” he thought, blood rising. “Can’t stop it this time.”  
  
With a quick breath, he turned and stepped forcefully into Sherlock’s space, their eyes locking.  
  
Sherlock broke off, mid-sentence. “…John?”  
  
“Shut up, Sherlock. Just… Christ! Shut up for five seconds and let me do this.”  
  
A beautiful mouth snapped, surprisingly, shut.  
  
John shoved at the centre of Sherlock’s chest, the contact completing a circuit between them that neither had yet acknowledged. It felt dangerous and right. Sherlock stumbled back, into the wall, and John crowded around him, pressing into him with his solid strength.  
  
He paused, his face and inch from Sherlock’s, and drew a shallow breath. Anticipation, just this side of fear, warred with longing. John lived for these moments, and Sherlock provided with perfectly irregular frequency. Now, John kept his eyes open.  
  
Quickly, he reached up and pressed a warm kiss to Sherlock’s closed mouth. Sherlock reared back, as much as he could in the limited space John had left him, and for a moment John’s heart stopped. He cursed the gambler in him. Then he recognized the look in Sherlock’s face, and it was not rejection, but wounded professional pride.  
  
“What are you...? You don’t! You’re not…” Even as Sherlock spoke, though, his hands knotted in John’s shirt, not letting him turn away.  
  
John snorted in relief, and pulled him down. Kissed him again, harder. “There’s always something, isn’t there?” he asked pointedly. “I’m not gay.” Another kiss. “That’s the truth.” This time, the jaw, agonizingly close to that delicious throat. “I’m John. And you are Sherlock, and this is us, now.” He dared a quick taste of sweat-damp skin, just above Sherlock’s collar. “Yes? Oh, I think so. Yes.”  
  
Pressing Sherlock back into the wall, John let go of his military control, easily as shedding an uncomfortable uniform. He let his body, at last, follow its instincts, sucking that bottom bow into his own mouth, taking it for his own. His, now.  
  
Against him, he felt Sherlock begin to respond: hands flexed against his chest, dropped to his waist, tugged John in. That small reciprocation, hoped-for, imagined, it drove John wild. He reached up for a handful of curls, yanking his head back and attacking the smooth, salt-scented neck. He did not hear, but felt against his lips, Sherlock’s low moan, his ragged breath. Suddenly, Sherlock sprang to action, pressing back against John. Their bodies came together forcefully, clashing, gnashing, pushing and grabbing, consuming. This, thought John. This is everything. Hands in hair; whose hair? Which mouth? Hands just there. Oh yes. Just there. Minutes, hours, he didn’t know, they were one, together chasing down the mystery forever shifting between them. John thought he’d never solve it; he knew Sherlock wouldn’t.  
  
Just down the alley, a back door burst open. John came back to himself in burst of passing voices and a sudden shaft of light, revealing wild hair and wilder hands. The pair broke apart, panting. John flopped back against the wall beside Sherlock. He wiped his mouth.  
  
“Reason backwards from that, you smug bastard,” John said fondly, eyes glowing.


End file.
